


The Way You Make Me Feel

by covetsubjugation



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Seduction, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:25:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covetsubjugation/pseuds/covetsubjugation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon has to teach Illya the art of seduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way You Make Me Feel

**Author's Note:**

> The film wasn't gay enough so I'm fixing it.

If Napoleon was being frank, he wasn’t surprised. He had been there at Illya’s first meeting with Gaby, and had bore witness to Illya’s straightforward blunt effectiveness.

To be fair, Illya was like that in most aspects of his life. He disliked spending more time on a task than necessary, disliked dawdling, especially if Napoleon was the one guilty of it. He wanted efficiency, accuracy, born of painstaking precision and calculation.

Time was precious to Illya, it had to be used well.

Illya was the knife he carried, quiet and effective, no fuss, no muss. He cut through the cloud with his sharp tongue and dry impatience, wanting the results he had worked hard for, not the long painful wait.

But a knife was only as effective as its wielder, and Illya was hopeless at flirting.

-

It was meant to be an easy mission. Their target was a wealthy tycoon, with a penchant for expensive paintings, jewelry, and poison. He was running a dangerous crime ring, and a rumoured expansion into weaponry. They were meant to infiltrate the group, slowly bring it down before killing him off. It wasn’t their first time doing such a mission, not by a long shot, but it was their first time doing one as a team. Napoleon worked well with Gaby, and so did Illya, but the two men themselves were still on shaky ground. The same tension ran behind their smiles, like a jagged wire pulled taut.

The infiltration was easy, and they were slowly decimating the crime ring, killing off key players one by one. They had joined the group separately to avoid suspicion, using their different nationalities as an excuse to avoid each other. And they were close, so tantalisingly close, to the finishing line before it all came apart.

It couldn’t have been just a simple  slipup resulting in them blowing their covers. That kind of mistake was fixable, an easy mistake for them to talk themselves out of. It just had to be a big foundational mistake, a major change in target.

Their target had never been the tycoon, it had always been his wife.

An unassuming woman, a dainty doll with sky blue eyes and rosy cheeks, with the cleanest and most honourable history among them all. She had been running the show from the start. She played her role of a dutiful wife in the day, but was the clever mastermind at night. Her husband was just a guileless simpleton, with no clue of the crime ring’s existence.

They would require a whole new plan.

Napoleon had looked for weaknesses, and now it was his time to shine. The Woman had a taste for sleeping with men other than her pudgy and slow husband. The taller the other man, the broader, the better. If he was exotic, that was simply the cherry on the top of the bloodstained cake.

Which was why Illya had to do it.

As much as Napoleon hated to admit it, Illya did have a good four inches on him. His Soviet nationality, not commonly seen in their side of the world, would make him more attractive to The Woman.

Illya had baulked at first when he first heard the plan. He argued, sulked and scowled for a good half an hour, but they all knew he had and would do it.

And now here they stood, Illya and Napoleon, in front of the mirror in their room, with Illya suited up in a sharp grey suit and Napoleon sitting in an armchair behind him, scotch in hand.

“The tie doesn’t suit,” Solo commented.

Illya growled in aggravation, wrenching off his tie and tossing it onto the ground. He had already been here for a solid forty minutes, first changing his suit multiple times, then his belt, and now his tie. He haven’t even gotten to his shoes yet. He reached out for another tie, only to be stopped by a slow tsk from behind him.

“No,” said Napoleon, with ill-disguised joy at Illya’s expression. “Not that one.”

“Have you ever considered,” Kuryakin asked through gritted teeth, “that I might know what I’m doing?”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow behind him.

His finger was starting to twitch, but he clamped down on the feeling of explosive rage, crawling up his throat. He tried to take deep breaths, watching his chest expand and contract, eyes pointedly fixed on his own reflection.

Sturdy hands grasped him by the shoulder, and he went stock still as he was turned around. Napoleon appeared in his line of vision, with a considering and yet still somehow smug look on his face. A black tie, only a shade or two lighter than his shirt, slipped over his head, and Illya watched as Napoleon tied the tie for him.

“What are you doing?” he asked stiffly, attempting to angle his body away from the other man as far as possible.

Napoleon grinned. “You’re a bit slow today,” he teased, glancing up only briefing to look Illya in the eye. “You okay, pal?”

The tie was released and Napoleon smoothed it down over his chest. The man’s hand was barely in contact with his chest for two seconds before Illya stepped back sullenly.

“I know what I’m doing, Cowboy,” he griped and Napoleon stepped back as well, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright then, Peril,” came the easygoing reply, “I’ll leave you to it.” He turned to leave, a smile still gracing his face, and Illya determinedly refused to look as the American stopped at the door.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Napoleon tossed over his shoulder.

“That leaves me with very limited options,” Illya shot back and he frowned when Napoleon only winked and left, the door closing with a soft click.

This was a very bad idea.

-

Trouble, as it turned out, liked to show up at very inopportune moments.

Gaby was sat at the bar, hair hidden under a dingy cap, eyes dark as if from a lack of sleep. Napoleon was across the room from her, staring deep into his drink.

“I’m starting to regret this,” Gaby’s voice crackled in his ear, and she rested her hand over her mouth as if covering a yawn. Napoleon shook his head at his drink, watching the faint reflection of blue eyes and rosy cheeks in the glass. Laughter rang out in the bar as a joke was made, with the tycoon swaying in his seat, eyes glazed over from copious amounts of alcohol.

He watched as The Woman acquired in concern after her husband, giggling as the various men with them escorted him upstairs. But once they were out of earshot, her giggles stopped and her features sharpened, all previous softness gone. Her eyes, now dark and dangerous, cast around the room with lethal intensity. While he couldn’t have imagined the dainty woman with the rosy cheeks to be the mastermind behind a deadly crime ring, the woman sitting before him definitely could have.

There was a heavy step on the stair and all softness rushed back into her face, lashes fluttering demurely as she took a sip of her drink. Napoleon followed her eyes as the man on the stairs came into view.

Illya emerged, his face in his usual stoic mask, but Napoleon frowned as he saw the lines of stress around his eyes and the chewed lip. “This might not end well,” he admitted.

Illya approached The Woman, and Napoleon watched as she smiled shyly up at him in greeting. Kuryakin remained as stiff as ever.

“You are...very beautiful,” Illya said hesitantly and The Woman’s face brightened.

“Thank you, you’re very handsome.”

There was a long awkward pause, before a strangled “thank you” emerged from Illya’s throat. Napoleon resisted the urge to bash his head on the table.

The conversation between Illya and The Woman was strained and graceless and Napoleon cringed more than once at Illya’s passionless responses. It was clear that The Woman was quickly losing interest in Illya, bored by his lack of response to her advances.

“Not that you’re not doing a good job,” he murmured, watching the Soviet’s reflection in his now empty glass, “but she is losing interest in you. May I suggest responding more enthusiastically to her advances?”

Illya nodded as in agreement to The Woman’s responses and opened his mouth once more. “You’re very beautiful,” he said once more and Napoleon would have thrown his hands up in frustration if he had not heard how Illya’s accent had strengthened, and seen the physical response it elicited in The Woman.

“You’re too kind,” she replied, flushing in pleasure, but she leaned forward, getting closer to the man, and Illya smiled down at her, straightening up in his seat. The height difference between them grew more pronounced and her pupils dilated further.

“I would like,” Illya enunciated each word clearly, playing up his accent even more, “to prove it to you.”

Even in the poor lighting of the bar, Napoleon could see how there was now only the slightest ring of blue around The Woman’s pupils, and she bit her lip coyly as she gestured at the stairs. Illya rose from his seat eagerly, and the two of them laughed as they tripped up the stairs in clear glee.

Only Illya returned an hour later, a small bead of sweat running down his forehead as he met up with Napoleon and Gaby down the street. He nodded shortly and Napoleon imagined the cry of passion that was crudely cut short by a gun to the head.

“Let’s go then.”

-

He showed up at Illya’s door a week later. Illya didn’t even look surprised when he came in to find Napoleon drinking his scotch.

They regarded each other for a moment, Napoleon from his chair, Illya from the door. The American sighed and took a final sip of his scotch. As he set down the glass, he murmured, “What was the education like in the KGB?”

Illya blinked.  “What?”

Napoleon stood up and the Soviet immediately stiffened. He shook his head and gestured at the gaping door behind them. As Illya closed it, Napoleon continued. “You are very good at what you do, Peril. So I don’t understand why do you lack in this particular aspect.”

There was no response other than a clenched jaw.

“You see, I don’t quite believe that the KGB would have neglected such an aspect in your education, seeing as they had you for as long as they had. And you could not have become the best KGB agent within three years if you were that bad at seducing others.”

He spread his hands wide. “Care to explain?”

Illya glared at him. “I do not see the relevance of this.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at him. “Unfortunately for you, we can’t get through all our missions by shooting a gun. Some of them need a subtler hand-”

“Are you actually lecturing me on subtlety?”

“-and this might require you to have to initiate intimate relations with others.”

Illya’s face was a stubborn red now, and he growled in frustration. “Get out,” he demanded, pointing at the door.

“I’m here to help you, Illya,” Napoleon protested.

“I do not take help from Americans.”

“You work with one.”

The two men glared at each other, mouths set in hard lines, but Napoleon looked away first, sighing once again.

“You need to practice,” he stated simply. “And you shall practice on me.”

There was another hard blink. “What?”

"You need to practice," Napoleon stated again. "And you shall practice on me. Are you always going to be this slow when we bring up seduction?"

"You are walking on a thin line, Cowboy," Illya warned. "It is not a good idea to tease a Soviet."

"It is not a good idea to be bad at seduction  in our line of work either," he pointed out. "We were lucky The Woman was so easily swayed your accent. We might not be so lucky next time. Are you going to practice on me or not?"

Napoleon could see the reluctance in Illya's eyes. The other man had turned away from him and in the dim light of the room, he could only see the hard line of his jaw.

Kuryakin was a portrait in stillness. His fists were clenched, shoulders up high around his ears, breathing slow and methodical. Napoleon supposed he was lucky that he hadn't been punched yet.

The thing is, he wasn't blind to attractiveness and he could tell that Illya was a very attractive man. He might hate the man, or at the very least, be mildly annoyed by him most of the time, but he knew when someone was fine.

And Illya was very fine.

It wasn't exactly his first time in the rodeo either. In his line of work, he had to be flexible, no matter how controversial it might be among his colleagues. And they could get bent.

And now it was Illya's turn, it was his choice. He had laid his cards out on the table. It was all up to Illya now.

The man shuffled. "It is illegal," he said from over his shoulder.

Napoleon shrugged. "It's not exactly for the first time in our lives."

There was another slow sigh before Illya turned around. Now with his back against the light, Napoleon couldn't see the Soviet's face. He glanced at the shadow of his hand, no tapping.

"Stand up," the voice commanded. "Go to the bar."

Napoleon smiled at the shadow. "Nice to see you see it my way."

"Don't talk."

Napoleon shrugged again, and made his way to the bar. He reached out for the glass of whiskey, pulling it towards him. There was no sound from behind him, but he didn't turn, feeling as if it would break the tentative peace between them.

There was a shuffle of feet, and Illya appeared next to him. There were panicked lines around his eyes, lips bitten once more.

"Stop," Napoleon commanded. "Not like that. You can't afford to look so nervous."

The eyes narrowed, jaw gritted, and Napoleon raised his hands in surrender.

"Mellow out," he said. "You need to look cool, don't stomp over or you will scare them off. Breathe, and sidle over to them. Say something like, 'Hey stud'."

The eyes were practically slits on his face by now. "'Hey stud'," Illya repeated unamusedly.

"Well, not like that," he criticised, poking the other man in the shoulder. "Mellow. Breathe. Smile. Say it like you mean it."

There was an offended huff and Illya turned to walk away. Napoleon turned his attention back to his drink. Another minute passed, and Illya returned again, this time a flirtatious smile on his face.

"Hey stud," he greeted, turning to rest an arm against the bar, body stretched out slightly to call attention to his long frame. Napoleon let his eyes linger.

"Hey," he returned, tilting his chin up to smile at the taller man. "What brings you here?"

Illya leaned closer, raising a shoulder in a half shrug. "To look at a pretty man." His mouth tilted up in the corner in a smirk, and Napoleon smirked back, ignoring the way his stomach clenched in response.

"Pretty, am I?" he asked and Illya nodded, his expression almost comically serious.

"Very," he said. "It seems almost a shame to have you out here all by yourself."

"You should fix it then," Napoleon said smoothly, tipping up his glass to pour the rest of the whiskey down his throat. Illya immediately reached for the whiskey bottle, adding more to his glass.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Napoleon teased. "I ain't no fast girl." He turned to face Illya fully and the man immediately stepped closer. Normally, he would have stepped away but now he could only feel the man's body heat emitting from him. Napoleon almost flushed, feeling compelled to stand even closer.

Illya reached up a hand, and stroked down Napoleon's cheek. He found himself leaning into Kuryakin's touch. "You're a real cherry," the Soviet said.

"I like to think so too," Napoleon teased and Illya laughed, lines crinkling around his eyes. He nearly gaped in shock, but Illya's eyes met his and Napoleon's stomach swooped.

Silence descended upon the room, and Napoleon could feel that something fundamental had shifted. The look in Illya's eyes had changed; Something almost raw, and honest, were hidden behind them. Somehow in a short span of time, they had stopped playing a game; This was no longer a lesson in seduction. This was actually happening, they were flirting with each other. They weren't hiding behind characters anymore. Napoleon frowned.

He was starting to think that Illya wasn't that bad at flirting after all.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he heard, and he turned to see Illya looking steadily at him.

He could break it, he mused. Break this tentative ground that they stood on. Step back, crack a joke. They could just go on as colleagues, men who tolerated each other, and not much else.

Making the wrong choice would be fatal. He could ruin what they had, shatter the friendship they were starting to build. He could be reading it all wrong, the alcohol going to his head.

But Illya's eyes were bluer than ever, focused on him with the same intensity they had when the man was shooting. He didn't think he was reading it wrong, so where did that leave him?

This was his choice now.

"I'm thinking about you," he answered and Illya smirked, but Napoleon watched the relief blossom behind his eyes.

"Nice to know I'm on your mind," Illya answered and his fingers trailed down Napoleon's arms, slowly hooking onto his belt loops. His hands were pressed against his thighs, he could feel the heat seeping into his skin.

"I was wondering," Napoleon mentioned offhandedly. He was surprised he could actually talk, his mouth was so dry. "I was wondering how you would prove to me that I was a 'real cherry'."

Illya's eyes flicked up and down his body and suddenly there were arms around his waist and Napoleon found himself being pulled forward, pressed against Illya from the waist down. He definitely had not been reading it wrong, if the heat against his thigh was anything to go by.

"I'll show you," Illya whispered and they were kissing, lips pressed messily against each other, hands roaming up and down the other man's body.

Napoleon managed to drag his mouth away from Illya's, only to moan when Illya immediately latched upon his neck, sucking a red bruise right next to his adam's apple.

"You lied to me," he huffed. "You're not that bad at flirting." Kuryakin lifted up his head to shrug at Peril.

"It is not my favourite method," the man admitted. "But I do it well with those I like." There was a smirk and he bent his head back down, sucking again at the reddened skin. The pull of Illya's mouth was intoxicating.

"I didn't know you liked me this much, Peril," he gasped out and Illya hummed against the fresh bruise. He could feel the other man shaking his head minutely.

"How is it," the Soviet asked, "that you can still be so annoying even when I am about to fuck you?"

His cock twitched in his trousers at the other man's words and Napoleon somehow found the brain cells to shrug. "Comes with being a cowboy," he gulped and Illya groaned in exasperation.

Their lips pressed together again. This time, they went slower and Napoleon took a moment to appreciate the sensations washing over him.

Illya smelled like spice and gunpowder, a steady current of warmth thrumming through his body. He was steady and solid beneath his hands, and Napoleon had never felt more comforted, but still turned on, in someone else's arms. All the while, he could feel the warm heat against his thigh and he let his hands slip down to Illya's ass, taking the chance to cop a feel.

Illya grunted, pulling back from Napoleon to glare at him. His breath washed over his face and Napoleon squeezed the flesh beneath his hands, grinning cheekily when Illya glared even harder.

"You," Napoleon panted, "have a very fine ass."

Illya looked less upset and more smug. "I know," he said, but he rocked his hips up against Napoleon and the men groaned at the feeling of their clothed cocks rubbing against each other.

"Don't tease," Napoleon protested. "For the love of God, don't tease," and Illya looked even more smug. His hands reached and tugged at Solo's hair. When he tilted his head back, Illya reattached his lips to his neck again, this time, leaving a line of bruises along Napoleon's jaw.

"Cowboy," Illya murmured against his jaw. "Let's see how well you ride." And Napoleon couldn't help but groan.

He felt himself being walked backwards and he collapsed the moment he felt his knees hit the bed. Illya had him caged beneath his body and the Soviet winked at him, before he felt the other man's lips pressed against his stomach.

The lips slowly trailed upwards, pausing to suck on both his nipples; He bucked upwards, and he felt his cock collide with Illya's.

Illya chuckled. "So sensitive, Cowboy. You are so easily taken apart."

Napoleon couldn't even find it within himself to take offence at the insult, grappling for Illya's belt and wrenching it off.

"Now," he hurried. "Strip. Now." He pushed Illya's grey trousers off his hips, feeling the other man's hands brush against his as he took over. He wrestled his own trousers off, groaning as he was greeted with the sight of Illya's cock straining against the white cotton underwear. Already, there was a damp spot at the tip of his cock, leaking through his underwear.

Illya flicked both his nipples and a cry caught in his throat at the sensation. "Peril," he begged. "Please."

Their eyes met and Napoleon recognised the same feeling of urgency boiling beneath the surface. There was the feeling of warmth against his hips briefly before a gush of air as Illya ripped his pants off. Another brief moment, and finally, finally, there was the feeling of skin to skin, of hot heat pressed against him.

His cock was leaking steadily already, and Napoleon would have been embarrassed if he couldn't see that Illya was in the same boat. They could move easily against each other, and Napoleon rutted urgently against Illya.

"Peril," he moaned needily and there was a similar moan answering him. Hands pressed against his shoulders, holding him down against the bed, and Napoleon thought that there will never be a more beautiful sight than the one above him; Illya flushed and sweating, hair flopping into his eyes as he grinded his cock against Napoleon's.

"Cowboy," Illya answered and his hands desperately scrabbled in the drawer next to the bed, finally pulling out a half empty bottle of lube, casting an eye at the man beneath him.

Napoleon shrugged. "Some people like to use it," he explained and Illya growled at the implication that someone else had already been here before him. His hands wrapped around the American's legs and pushed them up, exposing the hole hidden between them.

"Who else has been here?" Illya demanded and Napoleon again shrugged, a cheeky smile on his face. A lube covered finger pressed against his hole and Solo gasped as the finger slipped in.

"You can't even remember their names," Illya muttered as he worked his finger in and out of Napoleon's body, taking delight in every whimper that escaped from Napoleon's mouth. "You can't remember their names, but I promise you will remember mine."

"Yes," he continued, "You will remember mine, and you will remember what I did to you, and what you did to me. You will remember me."

"For God's sake," Napoleon gasped out, as another finger slipped into him. It had been a while since he had done this, and he was feeling the stretch now, but the feeling of Illya's fingers working in and out of him was better than anything he had ever felt. His legs were trembling, his hands fisted in the sheets under him. "If you want me to remember you, then stop talking and actually do something."

There was a third finger now, and Illya was finally properly finger fucking him, his hand thrusting in and out. Napoleon whined desperately, wanting to feel pressure where he needed it the most, bucking his hips in a silent plea.

Illya huffed out a laugh above him. "You're so desperate," he groaned. "You're so needy, you're willing to do anything now, aren't you, just to feel my fingers against your prostate, hmm?" He laughed again, and to Napoleon's great despair, slowly pulled his fingers out from within him. His hole clenched in protest, feeling empty and hollow.

"Sorry," Illya teased. "You're not going to get it."

His chest heaved up and down, as he whined angrily, and Napoleon pushed himself up onto his elbows to glare at Illya.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "I swear to God, Peril-"

"I thought I said I wanted you to ride me," Illya cut in and Napoleon's mouth immediately went dry. His hands flew to the other man's shoulders and he pushed, managing to flip over the two of them so that Illya was now the one beneath him and he was straddling him, knees spread wide open.

Napoleon somehow found the strength to grin at Illya. "You ready, Peril?" he asked and Illya rolled his eyes challengingly. To anyone else, he would have seemed almost bored, but Napoleon could tell by the hands clutching at his thighs that Illya was excited by the prospect of Napoleon riding him.

He raised himself up on his knees and grabbed Illya's cock, teasing himself with it as he rubbed it up and down across his own perineum. He moaned at the sensation.

Illya's hands were fisted white in the sheets.

Napoleon pressed the head of Illya's prick against his own rim, feeling the smooth surface rubbing so tantalisingly close to him. He glanced down to wink at the Soviet.

A breath passed. The cock slipped inside him.

Both of them moaned out loud. Illya's hands flew up to Napoleon's thighs and they squeezed tightly.

Napoleon pressed on, sinking down onto Illya's cock and rocking his hips, feeling the other man choke out his name.

His own hands settled onto Illya's hard chest and he used it to push himself up. He leaned forward, slowly moving up and down, moaning at the feeling of Illya fucking in and out of him.

He was about halfway down to Illya's chest when he got it. The Soviet's cock brushed across his prostate with each moment and Napoleon whined.

He went faster and faster and soon he was bouncing on Illya's cock, feeling pleasure burst behind his eyelids and he cursed, biting down on his lip as he fucked himself on the other man's prick.

He could feel bruises forming on his thighs, Illya squeezing so hard with each thrust. He could almost cry from how good it felt, and he nearly did as a hand slipped up to his chest and pinched his nipple.

Illya panted underneath him. "You love this, don't you?" he demanded. "You love this, feeling so desperate and needy, fucking yourself on my cock. All your pleasure is coming from me, isn't it?"

He leaned up and bit above Napoleon's nipple, worrying the skin between his teeth. The American threw back his head and moaned.

The bed rocked with each bounce, thudding against the wall as Napoleon worked himself closer and closer to an orgasm.

"Answer me," Illya demanded, his other hand clutching at Solo's thigh. He could already feel how close Napoleon was, how each whine got more and more high pitched as his cock bumped into his prostate.

Napoleon was sweating, his cheeks flushed with exertion, but his mouth hung open, lips temptingly red from where he had bitten in. His breath escaped from him in pants and his legs were shaking weakly. Solo sunk fully down onto Illya's cock, his hands grabbing desperately at his shoulders and he rocked his hips once feebly.

"Yes, yes," he whispered. "I love it. Please, Illya, please,  fuck me."

Illya grinned in victory and he thrusted vigorously into Napoleon. Their flesh smacked together and Napoleon moaned in earnest. His nails dragged down the front of Illya's chest and Illya groaned at the red hot feeling they left behind.

He could feel his own balls drawing up and judging by the way Napoleon's hole was fluttering around his cock, he could tell that he was close as well.

"Ready?" he asked and Napoleon groaned in frustration, now grinding down to meet each thrust.

"Get on with it," he rasped and almost victoriously Illya did, coming so hard his vision went white. He could feel Napoleon's hole clenching deliciously around his cock, milking it for all its worth, as strips of white covered his chest.

Napoleon's brain cells go offline and he can barely understand anything except how good that felt. He felt himself roll off Illya's cock, flopping down on the bed next to him, gulping desperately for air as his chest heaved up and down.

They laid there in almost complete silence, breathing in synchronicity. Finally there was a rustle of bedsheets and Illya appeared in his line of vision, mouth tilted up in a smirk.

Solo groaned, he could feel the waves of smugness rolling off Illya.

"Well?" the man asked, mouth still infuriatingly set in a smirk. Napoleon pouted consideringly.

"Nice to see you learnt something from your teachers."

 

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to TMFU better have these two idiots very obviously flirting with each other.
> 
> If you want to come and be my friend, or even just to talk to me about TMFU, my tumblr is [here](www.bisexualexhamilton.tumblr.com).


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